Some Things are Meant to Be, a Fan Fiction BBC SherlockJohn Story
by GeakLover
Summary: Part 1 - Violent Shadows. Chapters 1-4. In which Sherlock and John are challenged to find a missing police officer, clear the name of a man faced with armed robbery charges and discover how an elderly woman is seeing demons on the walls of her church. Pre-Relationship to Eventual Relationship in Parts 2 and 3


**Some Things are Meant to be**

A BBC FanFic Sherlock/John Story.

**By Geak, The Madnose**

**PART 1 – VIOLENT SHADOWS**

**Chapter 1**

**Terrors in the Night**

Again, for the third time in a month, he dreamed the same wretched dream. Each time it ended differently and it always began with unbeatable pain and fear. John walks into the pool looking lost and defeated, dressed in a heavy, army green coat that Sherlock had never seen before. He opens the coat to reveal a zipped up black vest wired and blinking. At any moment, he could die. He blinks three times quickly, three times slowly and three times quickly again. S.O.S. A cry for help.

"_John."_

The rest is a blur, Moriarty enters, speaks, and Sherlock struggles to hear the words.

"_I will burn the _heart_ out of you."_ Moriarty says, eyes screaming with molten, violent hatred.

"_I've been reliably informed that I don't have one_." Sherlock's voice is an icy calm whisper.

Moriarty glances back at John, who is staring at the ground. _"We both know that's not quite true."_ The words echo loudly through the building. John looks up, meeting Sherlock's eyes. He is brave, but the quiver in his breathing betrays him. Sherlock's heart assaults his rib cage and terror bullies its way into the calm. It is overtaking him.

Moriarty is still speaking but the words are lost to Sherlock. _He can't think. _John may die. The little red dot remains steadily over his chest. Panic overwhelms Sherlock when John attacks Moriarty. Sherlock draws his gun and shots are fired. Everything is on fire. It's all gone horribly wrong. _Everything is on fire. No._

"_JOHN!" _Sherlock cries, pulling through wreckage, searching, digging. He finds his friend. The pain in his chest flares, seizing until it cracks and shatters, leaving Sherlock in psychic agony. He is broken. _No, no, no, please no, I'm sorry. Please not this, I'm so sorry. "JOHN!" _His eyes are closed and Sherlock sobs uncontrollably.

"_Sherlock!_ _Oi_!" He hears John's voice, clear as day. _What?_

"_WAKE UP!"_

He jerks, sitting bolt upright. He is in his bed, in the darkness, at his home. He's not alone. A dark figure is looming beside him. Not fully conscious and still panicked he grabs the first thing to his left and throws it. A pillow. As soon as it was released from his fingertips he becomes aware. John ducks and swats the pillow away.

Sherlock's pulse is racing, his face is wet and he ache in his heart still feels real. Emotion like this is an unfamiliar intrusion. He normally blocks it out, makes it nonexistent but this feeling arose in a dream, leaving him vulnerable. His subconscious had attacked him. His mouth is dry and there is about eight seconds of silence as his eyes become accustomed to the darkness. He is able to see John's face. His expression is worried.

"Alright?" He asks, furrowing his brow.

"Yes. Fine." Sherlock says.

"I_ thought you were in trouble, wouldn't have burst in otherwise. Sorry." John's voice is scratching.

"I was yelling then?" Sherlock says, breathing slowly to calm the thunder in his heart.

"You yelled for me. You're alright?"

"Just dreaming. Moriarty was there. The bomb went off with you in it. I'm fine now." As far as he knew, this was the first time that he had actually yelled aloud from a dream. He felt embarrassed. Normally he wasn't haunted in the night by anything, especially when nothing traumatic actually happened. He had seen the cadavers of countless violent murder victims in his life. It frustrated and aggravated him that this dream with its different endings continued to terrorize him.

John stared at him, not really know what to say. His thoughts had been asphyxiated after hearing the terror in Sherlock's screams. "Okay." He picked the pillow up off the floor and set it back on the bed. "Do you need anything?"

Sherlock squinted in the darkness, trying to read John's expression. He was only a few feet away but the angle he was now standing at, out of the reach of the moonlight pouring through the window, cast his face in further darkness.

"What could I _possibly_ need? A hug? A hot chocolate? A bedtime story?" He snapped.

John stared past him for a moment and breathed out heavily. "Right. Goodnight then." His voice was flat. He turned and walked out, a bit awkwardly, pulling the door shut behind him.

Sherlock fell back onto his pillow, ran his fingers through his hair and began to ponder. _Makes no sense. John was never injured that night at all._ Sherlock remembered his dreams every night and instantly discarded them from his mind every morning, deeming them irrelevant. As a youth he had dabbled in lucidity. Within a few months he had mastered complete conscious, nonphysical control over his subconscious mind and grew bored with the practice. He had eliminated nightmares completely, discarding them, freezing them; throwing them away as soon as they would attempt to present themselves. He discarded subconscious fears and useless memories one by one until he had little to no fear left. Or so he had thought.

This fear could not be discarded, deleted or pushed aside. In this terror he never became aware that he was in a dream state until he awoke. Each time, it was real. The pain was real, the fear was real, it was as clear as day, it was binding and there was nothing he could do to stop it. _That_ was maddening.

In the previous dream he had felt the same fear and terror but he had gotten John and himself out alive. He had found Moriarty. When Sherlock found him he clawed, kicked and bit with the ravenous malice of a starving hyena. His intention was to destroy. It was not satisfying. Throughout that part of the dream Moriarty wore a shit eating grin and it never left his face. No matter how much Sherlock hurt Moriarty his expression never changed and it clearly said. _"I win."_

In the dream before that, the first dream, John had died and Sherlock had woken, gasping for air, a wrecked scream caught in his throat. He found himself reaching into the darkness alone.

**Chapter 2**

**Officer Alone**

The next morning when Sherlock got up he had no intention of mentioning what had happened the night before. In fact, he had chosen not to actually think of it. John had already showered and was reading the news. There was a kettle on in the kitchen and the world outside was dark, threatening to rain.

"Anything new?" Sherlock asked. His voice was a swift baritone melody. It matched his personality. Deep and rich, a complex capriccio. The table was cluttered. He deposited the sheaf of papers that had been left out from the previous night into a box labeled "Cold Case File" and sat opposite of his flat mate. Recently, John had taken to labeling boxes so that when Sherlock needed to find something in particular, the house wouldn't get terribly wrecked in the process. John thought that for having a very organized mind he tended to be an extremely disorganized man.

John briefly glanced up from the paper. "I slept very well, thanks."

"No, you haven't." Sherlock drummed his fingers together and John could feel his eyes burning through the thin pages of black and grey text.

"No, not really." He answered through a heavy breath.

"So. Is there anything new?"

John set the paper aside. "The usual. There is number of blokes and ladies wanting you to find out if their spouses are cheating on them. There is a man who feels threatened because someone is coming into his back yard at night and re arranging his lawn ornaments to make a scene of animals and gnomes in incriminating positions."

Sherlock snorted. "What else?"

"There's an older gentleman who wants you to clear his name for an armed robbery. Says he's innocent. One person was injured during the robbery. He's got whole family basically testifying against him as well as an officer who found the weapon on him. Still swears he didn't do it."

"_Dull_. He's out on bail and has at least two weeks until he goes before the magistrate. We'll pick it up if there's nothing else to prioritize. Anything else? Anything more dire? More interesting?"

John smiled and shook his head. "I'm sure _he_ thinks his situation is dire." He wandered to the kitchen and came back another cup of tea for himself and one for Sherlock, who nodded his thanks and made to stir double cubes that were dissolving at the bottom.

"There's also a woman who was praying in Winnmeir's chappel over off of Calmley and swears that last night she saw a demon up on the wall, assaulting the crucifix in her church. She's sent three emails already and called twice. She's in a ruddy panic."

Sherlock looked up from his cup, locking eyes with John. His mouth quivered, a smile threatening to crack the serious expression. It was only a few moments before they both broke and laughter couldn't be helped.

"_What_ does she want me to do about that? Really, John, _what,_ I'm a _detective_ I solve murders. I don't banish demons back to hell. So no one's dead then?"

John shook his head, laughing. "No one's dead, sorry."

"Boring."

After a moment John came to sit in the armchair across from him. His face turned curious.

"Sherlock."

"Hmm." He knew what John was about to say.

"How long have you been having those nightmares for?" John asked, crossing his arms and leaning back into the chair.

_Sign of defensiveness. Blinking rapidly, mild anxiety. Carefully composed expression… John you already know the answer so why are you asking?_ Sherlock thought. He'd been hoping to avoid the conversation.

John could read Sherlock almost just as well. He shrugged and after a moment of hesitation said. "It's just not the first time I've heard you yell. Just want to know what's been troubling you, if something is. If it's not, it's fine. Or if it is it's fine. I mean if you don't want to talk about it. It's all fine."

Sherlock shuffled in his seat. "How many times?"

John uncrossed his arms and leaned forward slightly. "Well you've yelled on three different nights, starting about a month after everything that happened that night with Moriarty." John tried to make eye contact but he could tell Sherlock was avoiding it. He knew that sentiment made him uncomfortable. "Every time, I think you've yelled my name at least once and said you were sorry. Last night was the worst, you kept_ yelling. I thought you were in actually trouble it went on for so long." John glanced down at his feet.

Silence settled. Sherlock cleared his throat. "I've seen countless corpses and been involved in situations more dangerous than that. I have never had a nightmare about it before."

There was a long pause. John glanced around the room a few times, admiring the crackling logs on the fire, the dust floating in the air and the perceptive look on Sherlock's face. John raised his eyebrows. The look said '_And?'_

Realizing that John wasn't satisfied with his answer Sherlock groaned.

"John. I really don't _know_ why Moriarty is haunting me." He exploded. "Can you imagine my frustration? I'm _very_ in control of my mind and _very_ in control of my emotions. To have a reoccurring dream that I cannot control or _delete_ for that matter is beyond infuriating. It's maddening. Do you understand? Are you happy?"

John opened and closed his mouth several times. "Right. Okay." He finally said.

"Good." Sherlock snapped.

The phone began to ring and they both bounded to their feet, relieved to have a reason to drop the conversation. John wasn't sure anymore why he had felt the need to bring it up again in the first place. Sherlock reached for the phone at the same time and their hands collided, knocking it off the mantle. John rolled his eyes as Sherlock reached down to pick it up. John could hear that it was Lestrade as soon as he answered. Sherlock tilted the phone outwards and John leaned it to catch the words.

"_going to need you down here immediately, it's urgent. One of my officers has gone missing. We haven't heard from him in more than twelve hours. He didn't return from his break last night and his partner reported him absent when he was an hour late. We've checked every lead we have and come up empty handed." John felt grim inside over hearing these words.

"We're on our way. I need to speak to his partner immediately. Be ready to brief me." Sherlock said as he hung up.

"You did it again." John said, shaking his head.

"Did I? Hung up before I finished speaking? Or volunteered you to go before asking you whether you had other plans?" Sherlock asked as he headed towards his room to change.

"First one, you're supposed to finish speaking _before_ you hang up." He yelled. Sherlock yelled something unintelligible in response as John headed to the first floor. It was very quiet. Mrs. Hudson was away for the weekend visiting family. John had never realized just how much Mrs. Hudson did for them until she wasn't around for a day. In the past twenty four hours the clutter from Sherlock's experiments and work in the kitchen had started to become overwhelming. It was strange not to hear her pattering around down stairs in the morning and prattling on when she visited to clean up their flat and organize the books and silverware.

John had hailed a taxi by the time Sherlock walked out the door and they got in, telling the driver to hurry to New Scotland Yard. Sherlock's eyes drifted around the interior of the cab, finally coming to rest on John's face. Instantly, the image of him strapped to the bomb flashed through his mind again. He felt his pulse quicken and his fists clench slightly. John glanced up and had to do a double take. Before he could even open his mouth Sherlock muttered quickly.

"Fine. I'm fine."

"It's really bothering you isn't it? Moriarty?"

John received no reply and left Sherlock to stare out the window at the caving mountain of storm clouds.

By the time they arrived it was almost ten thirty. Lestrade call them both into his office and briefed them on the details. His beard was neatly trimmed, his clothes fresh pressed and his rough hands fairly well manicured. Bright florescent lighting made the well-kept office shine. Sherlock ordered each important fact into organized bullet points in his mind and discarded the other ones.

Lestrade's voice was gruff.

"Michael Officer Morich and Todd Archer were on patrol last night when Archer told Officer Morich he would be meeting someone for dinner on his down time. He took off a bit before seven and never returned. Morich tried every method of reaching him and couldn't get through. Normally we're not sticklers about getting back right on the minute, but when Archer was more than twenty minutes late and hadn't called in, Officer Morich got the feeling something was off. He waited another fifteen or so before calling it in. We were on scene within the next twenty minutes, searched every nearby area, went to the restaurant he said he'd be at, checked up and down the Thames and every bar within a mile. Nothing. His phone was off when we rang him. Family and friends have no clue. We're thinking the worst."

"Are you going to let me speak to the partner?" Sherlock asked finally.

Lestrade sighed. "Yes, but he's badly shaken up. He's been partnered with this man for over two years. I don't know whether they were particularly close or not, unlike you two," he glanced between Sherlock and John. John didn't care to protest comments like this anymore, people just made them anyways. Sherlock never even acknowledged them. "Anyways," Lestrade continued. "Try to be, er, less_ aggressive, if you can, this time. If you put him under too much pressure he starts stuttering. Getting information out of him after that will be difficult for you, I'm sure."

John raised his eyebrows. "Doesn't function well under pressure but made it through the academy? Onto _your_ team?"

Lestrade looked frustrated. "Physically, he functions alright under pressure. Not verbally. His partner did most of the talking. He's gotten better but Sherlock can make almost anyone stutter. Just, be calm with him and be patient. He's down the hall." Sherlock looked at him strangely. Lestrade was not known for letting people into his force who he didn't have complete confidence in.

John offered to grab them both a coffee and meet up with him in the interrogation room.

The man was in his late twenties. He was seated at the grey, square table, both hands resting in front of him. His coffee, napkin and cell phone were evenly aligned three square inches from the end of the desk and spaced apart two inches. He had a number of tiny scars lining his ears, two on his lower lip and one over his eyebrow, indicating a number of piercings that had been removed permanently. The fingertips on his left hand were calloused. He was plump, blonde and trembling like a small dog. Sherlock assessed him quickly.

_Subculture persona during youth. Plays guitar. Obsessive compulsive. Socially awkward. Only child. Close relationship with his mother. Single. Thoroughly hygienic. Has small dog. Has a temper. Bad acne as a teen. Ridiculed as a youth. Became a police officer. Dominating over those weaker than himself. Weak character. Unsteady morals. Dislikes exercise. High anxiety. _

"Who was your partner going to meet during his lunch break?" Sherlock asked immediately. The man already seemed nervous. He took a deep breath.

"I don't know, Mr. Holmes. I really don't. He was brief before he left. Just said he was meeting a friend he hadn't seen in a while and left. I didn't think anything of it. Until he didn't come back. I'm sorry. He said he was going to Rural's." His voice was low with desperation, he was thrumming his fingers on the desk and his breath was coming in short and fast.

Sherlock frowned. John knew he hated naturally nervous folk. He couldn't rely on a jump in heart rate or a stutter in speech to tell if they were lying because for them, that was normal. He opened his mouth to speak and was cut off as the doorknob twisted loudly. Another officer entered the room. This man's facial features were similar to Officer Morich's.

"You must be Sherlock Holmes." His voice was stoic and he was extending a large, tanned hand. "I'm_"

Sherlock leaned back, repelled by the intrusion. John could see it on his face before Sherlock interrupted.

"You are officer Morich's cousin. Here for moral support because you understand his nervous disposition and have a bad habit of speaking for him when he needs to speak for himself. You've done this for him for so long I'm afraid it's done nothing but worsen his disposition. It _certainly_ hasn't helped him. Were you on call during the time of the disappearance and did you respond to the call when it was made?" Sherlock spoke quickly. The man dropped his hand.

"_Officer Richard Carter." He continued introducing himself. "You live up to your reputation." His voice had lost the little warmth it held before. "I was on duty until eight in the evening. I witnessed Archer and Morich briefly around five, shortly after they had come on duty. I was not on duty by the time this happened and did not respond to the call."

"Then you may leave before you further complicate the situation. I know you think he needs your help but I assure you he's doing just fine on his own." Sherlock replied. John gave Carter a quick smile and nod. Officer Carter's eyes widened.

"Do you have anything to go off? Any ideas about where he might be?" Carter asked. The look Sherlock gave him was both suspicious and contemptuous. Carter pursed his lips and stared at Sherlock then looked to Officer Morich. After a long pause Officer Morich nodded, indicating that he would be fine on his own. Carter turned and left the room, closing the door with a zealous snap.

Sherlock turned back to Officer Morich, who was become steadily more nervous by the second. John watched as Sherlock questioned him about his relationship his partner. Verified how long they had been a team. Got a description of the missing officer, asked what his normal habits were while he was on duty, asked if he had done anything out of character lately or if he might be involved in any illegal activities.

John watched Sherlock as his ears took in Officer Morich's words. He could see how he scrutinized him. The way Officer Morich articulated sentences was awkward and hard to decipher. He could see the frustration building in his flat mate as he searched for something useful. Officer Morich obviously sensed it too because his stuttering was become more apparent by the minute and his hands, rested on the table in plain view, were quivering.

"H-h-he_ Sorry_" Officer Morich took a long moment to regain his composure. His stuttering had worsened with each question. John could see frustration growing more apparent on Sherlock's face. He tell see how hard Sherlock was trying to control his usual habit of pressing quick explanations and shocking the people he interrogated.

When he saw Sherlock about to lose his temper John would lean slightly to the right, brushing Sherlock's shoulder with his own to remind him to remain calm. Subtle gestures like these had become a regular part of their routine. Sherlock glanced at John, then at the desk and pinched the bridge of his nose between two fingers. Officer Morich glanced at him and John let out a small cough.

"He usually went on break at about six forty five. That was usual for him. He took a lot of pictures while on duty and while on his break. He liked photography. Always said how he loved being able to roam the same city for years and still see new things every day. He has been late a few times coming back in the past, sometimes by ten minutes, sometimes fifteen. That's why I didn't think much about it until I realized he'd been gone for an hour and a half or possibly more. After I started thinking about it and was unable to contact him it wasn't long before I called it in that he was gone and I was unable to make contact with him." Imagine that paragraph broken down into stutters and pauses and you'll understand the frustration that they shared.

Sherlock had all that he could handle of the nervous man. He stood up abruptly.

"Right thank you for your time." He said quickly and exited the room before Officer Morich could respond. John hurried to keep up with him.

"Text Lestrade and tell him we're going to Rural's for lunch." Sherlock said as they stepped outside. The rain was coming down heavily now.

"You couldn't have just told him before we left?" John asked, reluctantly pulling out his phone as they climbed into the cab.

"I couldn't stand to be there another moment after speaking to that blundering idiot. I _detest_ speech impediments. So much harder to tell if they're lying or telling the truth."

John yawned.

Sherlock glanced at him sharply. "You went to bed before I did."

He shrugged. "Couldn't sleep again after_ all that."

The corners of Sherlock's mouth turned down. He couldn't afford to think of that right now.

Rural's was a lonely, brown brick shop across the river. It was in an inconvenient location, not good for advertising. The prices were high and there was nothing particularly nourishing or tasteful on the menu. However, the atmosphere was warm and welcoming. The dusty oak floors, high ceilings, sofas, bookshelves, fireplace and little round tables each with a different style of chair gave it the feeling of a boarding school common room. A small television in the back right corner was muted. Sherlock questioned why the officer would choose this location to eat at rather than a place where the food was actually enjoyable.

From what Sherlock understood, Archer seemed like the kind of man who preferred to be in the spotlight. In well-lit places where he could be recognized and admired by the people around him. If he did eat there at all the place must have held some sentimental value. He expressed this to John, as well as his frustration with the interview with his partner. He had nothing to go off of until Donovan's reports came back. There were a thousand possibilities of what could have happened to him. Sherlock had never met him.

Lestrade had allowed him to view the man's file as well as his social media page online. He was able to rule out that Archer had any substance abuse problems. He drank little, wrote a relationship advice column from which he met a number of women and because of this he had a string of short term girlfriends. He had never been married. He took a lot of pictures, mostly of sunsets and landscapes.

From what Lestrade said he was infamous for taking beautiful pictures at odd locations. He had no children, no interesting mental disorders, wasn't particularly involved in politics, no physical disabilities other than an injured knee most likely from wrestling in high school. He had graduated with some honors. There was nothing about the man that indicated that he had any major enemies, from what Sherlock had gathered from those on the force who knew him. He had been informed that Officer Morich and Archer were not particularly close but were not badly suited for each other either. From what Sherlock could see it appeared that Officer Morich needed Archer for his skills and Archer needed Morich for his ego.

John nodded as he attempted to retain all of the information that Sherlock had gathered. He stifled another yawn. From what John had seen, Sherlock had only actually looked at three or four pictures of Officer Archer and swiftly glanced at his information profile before closing the screen.

So far Sherlock's only suspect was Officer Morich but there was no evidence to support the theory. As long as there was no Archer, there was nothing to go off of.

"We need a _body_, for god's sake." Sherlock exclaimed as approached the front counter, making the woman in front of them jump.

"What makes you think he's dead exactly?" John asked.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Please John. There is no _ransom_ out for him. He's been missing without a trace for almost twenty-four hours which is highly out of character. Odds are never good when that happens. There's an _extremely_ slim chance that he's stuck somewhere badly injured with no ability to call for help. Since there were no reported fires, violent robberies, anything dangerous or interesting within four miles of this area last night around the time of his disappearance it stands to reason that he was abducted and killed. It could have been his partner. Did you notice that Officer Morich continually referred to Archer in the past tense? It could have been an unconscious expression of the fear that Archer is dead or it could have been that he _knows_ he's dead. With a stuttering idiot like that it's hard to tell. For the record, a person who is obsessive compulsive is twice as hard to deduce simply because they take such precautions when it comes to their personal hygiene and appearance. No interesting indications of where he had been prior and when I asked Lestrade to acquire the uniform that Officer Morich had worn the night before he informed me that it had already been washed. It makes sense because the laundry is commonly done on Friday nights but it is also inconvenient. So is that the habit of a man who is obsessive compulsive or is that a man trying to cover up a murder?"

Sometimes John wondered whether Sherlock needed to breathe at all. "Brilliant." He said. "Well, we could have a walk down around the roads ourselves and see what we can find."

Sherlock nodded at the suggestion. "I think that would be our best bet."

John nodded. "Back in a moment." He said as he turned away. He headed down the narrow hallway, past the kitchen to the bathroom. It was a tiny single room with grime around the sink and fingerprints all over the mirror. Upon returning he found that Sherlock had ordered for him.

"Thanks." He said, knowing beyond reasonable doubt that the sandwich was no different than what he would have ordered for himself. They settled themselves at a queerly short table beside the window. The only one that was unoccupied. Sherlock's legs had little room to extend and ended up reaching past John's, brushing against him as he fidgeted into a comfortable position.

"The shop owner confirmed that no police officer ate here last night to his knowledge. He was here without a break from three in the afternoon until they closed at ten. He took his break at six until six thirty which is before Archer would have been here. His time card and cashier confirmed the truth of the statement. In fact, Archer has never eaten here before and he is known to be a regular at Encor's a few blocks south of here."

"So he was never here. Either he lied to Officer Morich or Officer Morich is lying to us. Which do you think?" John asked.

"Which seems more likely? A cowardly, stuttering, impeccably stupid man lying about his partner's whereabouts to conceal his murder or cover for something immoral he was doing _or_ a well to do, fairly attractive, poetry writing photographer with a ridiculous amount of female companions and a standard, tumor-like ego who lied to his partner to get away with something immoral he was doing."

"To be fair when you describe them like that both options sound very likely." John replied thickly, through a bite of sandwich.

Sherlock's phone sounded a series of melodic beeps. It was Lestrade.

_FOUND BODY. INTERSECTION OF CALMLEY AND WOODROW. 1.5 MILES UP STREAM FROM RURAL'S. ON THE THAMES. –GL_

"Finally!" Sherlock exclaimed. John carefully wrapped up the other half of his meal as well as Sherlock's which had gone untouched. He could get the man to order food but seldom to eat it, particularly when his mind was consumed by his work.

The cab ride there was quick. Rain was coming down hard now and John struggled to hold his umbrella over the two of them and keep up with Sherlock's pace. Soon Sherlock reached out, plucked the umbrella from his hand and continued walking, holding it out far enough for John to duck under. It was reasonable because of the substantial height difference between them but John wished that Sherlock for once would just bring his own umbrella. He drew in closer, trying to keep up through the muddy grass which sucked his feet down at every step, making an unpleasant squelching noise.

Anderson, Donovan, Lestrade and the rest of his team were all on scene. The body had gotten caught up on the river bank and covered by leaves, sticks and bits of garbage. Sherlock passed the umbrella off to John, indicating that he should go on. He went off to distract Anderson and Donovan long enough for John to inspect the body without being harassed.

Immediately he found a large bruised knot on the back of the cadaver's water bloated head. A bump like that shouldn't have been enough to kill him but it was still possible. He was missing his pen, notepad, talkie, phone, baton and badge from what john could see. After inspecting the face and neck John found that his jaw had been broken. Bruising and minor swelling revealed this. There was a fabric burn on his neck, indicating that he had been grabbed by the collar of his shirt and jerked roughly. His finger nails were torn up and there were scrapes on his palm. There was a fancy digital camera in his pocket, encased but still waterlogged. It was surely ruined from the trip down the river.

Sherlock was kneeling beside him now, huddling close under the umbrella between them. John quickly explained that if it were a single wound on the back of the head there would be the possibility that he had just knocked himself out and drowned but the broken jaw and burn around his neck showed signs of a violent encounter. Sherlock noticed blue ink smeared on his wrist but it was not legible. If he'd had his notepad on him before he wouldn't have needed to write on his wrist for any reason. Had he been trying to write the name of the murderer? He'd surely been attacked.

The boots he wore had deep divots in the bottom. Sherlock collected a sample of the mud and what looked like sienna colored bits of brick that were wedged in the crevices, muttering to John all the while as he held the umbrella over them. The unfortunate part of finding a body in the water is that the evidence is usually eroded by the flowing current. It made for difficult deduction.

"Done yet?" Donovan asked coolly, looming over them with disgust plastered across her face.

Sherlock glanced up and gave his worst false smile. "Surely." They stood, briefed Lestrade on the man's condition and gave him a separate sample of the grit from the dead officer's boots.

"Any theories?" Lestrade asked.

"Facts first. Then theories. He obviously never went to Rural's. The shop owner would have recognized a man in uniform eating there. It is very close to the river but bodies do not float up stream. He was dumped farther up, so you'll be looking for a second crime scene that will be no more than two and a half miles up from here."

Lestrade nodded. "How do you know it was only two and a half? He could have floated ten for all we know."

"There is a decent amount of debris washed up against the body. Obviously he had been there for a few hours at least. Look at the way the leaves pile together. In layers. You can see they stacked up closer together, thicker when the current was stronger and the rain was coming down harder."

Neither John nor Lestrade could see the difference. Sherlock continued.

"Assuming he was killed or at least knocked out before eight in the evening that leaves roughly eighteen hours for him to float. This part of the river does not run swiftly. The rain last night would have caused the river to pull him at a quicker pace, quick enough to actually move the body a significant amount but not so quick that he could have traveled more than a couple miles. Also, had he been disposed of more than three miles up he would have most certainly got caught up in the rubbish mess that is clogging up the narrow river bend above Calmley and Salem."

"Only you could know that." John said, shaking his head and Sherlock beamed. John could tell he was having fun. The man smiled at him quickly before opening his mouth to continue.

"How do you know that it's clogged up there?" Anderson asked sharply.

"Always so quick to suspect me. I know every _inch_ of London." He drawled.

Sherlock had stopped giving detailed explanations for every intentionally incriminating question that Anderson and Donovan presented. If Lestrade didn't pursue the question and most of the time he didn't, Sherlock felt that he owed them no answer. Unless he was in the mood to show off. Sherlock knew that Lestrade would journey up stream, confirm his statement and put it in his report but trusted him enough that he didn't always need to know how he knew it.

"The murderer disposed of the body in a hurry, taking no standard precautions that a person who planned a murder would have done. Had he been intelligent at all he would have stripped the body and weighed it down. Because of this, it stands to reason that he did not have it in him to move the body far. A first time killer. The area up stream between Calmley and Ridge Road is popular. A bit farther down it is the opposite. All warehouses, construction sites, a water tower, a few other miscellaneous buildings. It's quiet and underpopulated, a decent place to commit a crime or have a confrontation. That's almost a mile and a half from where we are now."

Lestrade nodded. "Ideas?"

"The idea is that Officer Archer was led to a secluded area and killed. The killer was not prepared to hide a body, meaning the death of Officer Archer wasn't intended but it still happened. Perhaps he was being confronted over some personal matter and things went badly. You need to take Officer Morich in for further questioning. He is the prime suspect in this case."

Lestrade looked uncomfortable. He motioned for Sherlock and John to walk with him, out of earshot of the rest. "Look, Sherlock. His_ His _Mum_ is our prison's new warden. She's a sod awful woman with a lot of power. It will raise hell if we bring Officer Morich in for questioning. I need you to have a bit more than that before I'll go there. If you're wrong and it gets out that he was a suspect that could be very bad for his reputation, her reputation and _my_ reputation."

From the way Sherlock looked at Lestrade, head tilted eye, eyes narrowed, John could tell that he was about to call a bluff as he saw it.

"What does she have on you? The last person to see a man alive before he is murdered is always your primary suspect until another arises. Officer of the Law or not, he needs to be questioned further."

Lestrade rubbed his temples. "No, Sherlock, it's not me she has anything on. It's you."

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. John frowned.

"What exactly does she have on Sherlock?" He asked.

"Not _this_ again." Sherlock groaned.

"We've talked about it before. He can tell you later." Lestrade jerked his head towards Sherlock. "Either way you two. Get me more than your suspicions. Get me evidence. This is one woman who I don't want on my arse." He looked back at John. "She won't make Sherlock pay for his mistakes either. She'll twist things her way and make _me_ pay." He walked back towards the scene, calling for his team to hurry up and get out of the rain.

John shivered violently and Sherlock stepped behind him, bringing the umbrella down three inches to become a shield from the sharp wind.

Sherlock leaned in and asked quietly. "Ready for a trot up the road?"

His breath was hot and his lips were soft against John's ear, making him quiver lightly. "Ready as I'll ever be in this weather." He said.

The body was bagged up and being taken away. Molly would text Sherlock after the autopsy report came back but that would be more than six hours from then and they had time to kill. Sherlock and John said a brief goodbye to Lestrade and promised to fill him know if they found anything.

**Chapter 3**

**Shadows on the Wall**

They traveled up the river bank, mud squelching under their feet. The sky was dusky and rain was coming down harder. Sherlock walked swiftly. He was scanning the bank like a hungry bird of prey, looking for signs of the original crime scene. He poked about in the brush, hopped over logs with diligence and an absurd energy. He was inspecting every pile of cinder blocks, ever bit of trash and every unusual log that lingered at the water's edge. He'd left John with the umbrella and was getting drenched under the violent downpour. John called for him to stop at one point but Sherlock ignored him.

Eventually the bank became too steep for them to walk along and they were forced to journey up the hill to the road, blinking water out of their eyes all the while. Ahead they could see a series of light green warehouses and a few construction sites. Another mile or so up the road and John knew they would be too far. From the top of the hill he could see the canal that Sherlock had talking about, a sharp, narrow bend that was clogged up by trash and nature debris.

A red brick building on the left hand side of the road had recently been demolished. Sherlock was bending over the rubble when the wind picked up and hail began coming down hard. The storm grew violent in a matter of minutes and the umbrella in John's hand was whipped backwards out of his hand. Had he not caught the very end around his fingertip it would have been gone in seconds, devoured by ravenous skies.

"_Sherlock! We need to get out of this immediately! We're going to catch our deaths!"_ John commanded. His strong voice was muffled by the wind and rain. He pointed towards a chapel a little farther up the road on the right hand side. Sherlock glanced around, frustrated, before nodding. They jogged towards the building. The doors large rectangle doors were unlocked and the warmth inside was a welcome relief. No heating, but it was well insulated and far better than standing in the storm outside.

It was a long rectangular building with two story ceilings. A massive stained glass window went up the middle of the long wall. It was directly across from a large crucifix that was displayed about fifteen feet off the ground. There were no windows on that side of the chapel.

The stained glass was the primary piece of art, a many colored masterpiece. It was intricately designed to depict Cherubs, Seraphim and various archangels dancing around the cloudy, celestial paradise. Covered lighting above the window caused the whole chapel to fill with all the colors of the rainbow whether the sun shown through or not.

In this weather and in the present circumstances John felt that the rainbow of shadows cast from the light was eerie. The shadows lit up the opposite wall where a life size, disturbingly realistic crucifix hung. Something pinched at the back of John's thoughts. He walked up to the window, rubbing his hands together. Glancing out the stained glass he noticed another demolition site adjacent to the church. The equipment had been abandoned there. John wondered if they had to abandon the site before the work was complete due to the weather's sudden shift. He shivered again violently.

"John." Sherlock's voice was urgent.

"Give it a minute, I'm sure it'll settle. We can't continue outdoors in this weather." John was staring out the window, watching leaves blow past and hail come down hard.

"John. Do you know where we are right now?" Sherlock asked.

"We're on Calmley Road, next to the river, in a chapel, out of the rain. What are you getting at?" Then it hit him. John turned, his eyebrows furrowing. There was only one reason he could think of that Sherlock would be mentioning it. He glanced around, taking in the dusty wooden floors, rows of clumsy wooden benches and plastered white walls. "Winnmeir's? The woman who wanted us to lend a hand with her demon? What are the odds_"

A sharp crack cut him off mid sentence and made them both jump. The wind was so fierce it had sent an entire tree branch crashing against the top of the window, causing the glass to crack. Outside, the dark skies raged.

Sherlock stared at the window for a moment, a thoughtful look on his face. He swiftly turned to view at the wall behind him. The branch was casting a shadow over the large figure of Christ on the cross. John stared, wondering what Sherlock might be thinking. The shadow began to slip, causing the branch to move, distorting the colored patterns with darkness that danced a bit more then finally blew away entirely.

"John how old was the woman who attempted to contact us?" Sherlock asked.

"She was fairly old, from the sound of her voice. Maybe in her eighties." John replied, still staring at the spot where the shadows had danced violently across the wall. He shivered hard.

"Odds are her vision is poor." Sherlock was pacing back and forth before the alter. "The shadows cast on the wall opposite the glass are dark and distorted. Imagine something behind the glass similar to what we just saw? At the angle the branch was at, all the way at the very top of the window, the shadow was cast _down_. All the way down onto the crucifix." He laughed. "There was no demon John, all she saw were shadows reaching out from a high up place. What's outside? Rubbish! Construction equipment! The building out there was just demolished, today perhaps. Yesterday though, it was there and we need to contact that woman immediately."

John frowned, looking down at his soggy clothes.

"Sherlock just a moment ago we were searching for the crime scene of a murdered police officer. Now you want to tell the old lady that all she saw were shadows on the wall?" John asked.

"Yes John, I feel it's very important that we tranquilize her mind at this time. Do you understand?" Sherlock replied sincerely, still staring at the same spot. John puzzled for a moment.

"Not at all."

"I'm afraid we can't afford to wait." Sherlock said. Just then, another shadow was cast in front of them. At ground level it passed through the chapel quickly, distorting the colored patterns and then disappeared where the window ended. Both of them turned. It was impossible to make out much that was going on outside but something or someone had obviously flown past the window very quickly. They turned to stare at the entrance, waiting to see if anyone would enter. When no one did they started towards the door.

"Do you reckon it was another tree branch? Or was that a person? Who would be out in this kind of weather aside from us?" John asked.

"Oh, I don't know, maybe someone with something to hide? Granted it _could_ have been another branch." Sherlock said, starting towards the door. "I just need to see one more thing. Wait here, and ring a cab for us." He was out the door before John could respond. John stared out the window, trying to make out Sherlock's figure as he darted into the demolition site.

"Yes, hullo, address is 101 Calmley street. Name is John Watson. Soon as possible, thank you." He hung up, walked towards the door and braced himself for the icy, wet world. The rain was so thick it was hard to make anything out. The skies had darkened considerably from the raging storm and growing afternoon. John could no longer see Sherlock and began heading in the same direction when another loud _crack _sounded behind him.

He turned, drawing his gun, only to see that the wooden cross in front of the building had snapped. Now he could make out the words displayed on the horizontal part of the cross. _Winnmeir's Chapel, Home of the Lord._ He blinked water out of his eyes. Up the street he was sure he saw his friend's tall figure dart behind one of the warehouses.

"_SHERLOCK!" _John yelled, putting away his gun and starting towards the area at a jog.

Thousands of tiny pieces of hail spattered the ground, off the top of his head and across his back, stinging sharply. He was drawing closer to the warehouse when he thought he heard a shout. John glanced around. The warehouse door was cracked, shuttering back and forth from the wind. He was nearing it.

This time he was sure he heard someone shout. He whipped around in to see headlights coming up the end of the road and Sherlock standing at the curb, motioning for him to come back.

John swore and ran to him, now soaked to the bone.

"I swear I just saw you there!" He yelled as he approached him, pointing back towards the warehouse.

"There's _definitely_ someone else out here John." Sherlock said. "And, I've got something."

The cab pulled up beside them and they both climbed in.

"A quick stop and then back home for a moment to change before we continue? We need to visit that woman. What was her name?" Sherlock said. John just nodded. Sherlock saw him shaking violently from the cold.

"Mind turning the heat up back here? Thank you." Sherlock snapped at the cabbie, jolting John back to his senses.

"Oh sorry, her name, I believe it was Esther Carrol, or something like that. What are you going on about Sherlock? What's going on?" John asked.

"Shadows, fighting, we know what happened now, the demolition site_"

"No, not _we_, sorry, I don't understand what you are talking about. At all." John was freezing, exhausted and irritable. Sherlock seemed more excited than before. "You're mad, dammit Sherlock, you know that? No sane person who gave a damn about their bleeding health would be out in this weather. The man's already dead, it's not like his life depends on us to be swift."

"Fickle from the cold Doctor?" Sherlock teased. He was ticking away swiftly on his cell phone. Only two minutes had passed before his phone sounded.

"Hello. No I'll remember. 1460 Goods Way, flat number 51E. Got it, thank you." He hung up and repeated the address to the cabbie. John held his frozen fingers up to the heating vents. The cabbie was driving slowly, leaned forward to peer into the dastardly grey world.

Long moments passed. John could see his friend was deep in thought. The streets were empty of people are cars were creeping slowly, trying to avoid getting wrecked from the weather.

"Sherlock, how long has that car been behind us?" John asked, trying to make out details on the vehicle on their tail. The bright headlights had been reflecting off the back window of the cab, nagging at his eyes.

"It pulled out from behind the large green warehouse on Calmley. The one you were running to greet so readily. Don't worry; I'm fairly certain he won't make it far with us. There are a few intersections and a roundabout coming that should cut him off."

"Hmm. Alright. Have you phoned Lestrade?"

"I'll ring him after we've had a chance to speak to Mrs. Carrol."

Their follower stayed behind them as they made their way through the city. Finally, a crowded stop sign, a red light and a roundabout did indeed cut the casual pursuit to an end. As far as John could tell.

"So what exactly does that woman have on you?" John asked.

"Hm? What woman?"

"The one that Greg doesn't want to offend."

Sherlock made a face. "Nothing. He is making it seem far more menacing than it actually is. He doesn't want to be publicly embarrassed because of something that I did. A few months before I met you there was an awkward situation involving one of her prisoners, a strip search and_ Not the results I was expecting to find. I was very much mistaken about that case and it ended up being very embarrassing; for Lestrade at least. Thankfully the lawsuit was avoided and frankly I couldn't care less about public humiliation." John shook his head. Sometimes it bothered _him_ how little Sherlock cared for his reputation; or for _their_ reputation.

"For his sake," Sherlock continued. "I'm doing my best to solve this quickly. I don't know what he's on about though. If I am able to prove that her blundering idiot of a son is the killer she will take it personally and do her best to make Lestrade's life a living hell if she can. I have a few nicely chosen words that may change her mind but that is no guarantee. If we can manage to keep it out of the press it might not be so bad. Though, I believe he's hoping that I will find the murderer was someone else."

Finally they pulled up outside a casual looking brick apartment house and got out. John paid the cabbie as Sherlock proceeded to buzz the apartment number. A feeble voice answered "Hello?"

"Hello, if this is Mrs. Carrol, my name is Sherlock Holmes, my colleague Doctor John Watson is with me. We received the messages regarding your_ Church experience and would like to help."

There was a moment of silence before the tiny voice exclaimed. "Oh my! Imagine that_" The buzzer sounded and Sherlock opened the door. The left a trail of water all the way up the stairs and did their best to wipe the mud off their feet before entering the flat.

"Dears!" Mrs. Carrol cried when she opened the door. Her accident was thick and Scottish. "Have you walked all this way just for me? _You're wet!_ Soaking wet!"

"Excellent deduction Madam." Sherlock said flatly. The woman only smiled.

"Don't be cheeky, she's old." John whispered before saying rather loudly. "We've actually just come from _Winnmeir's_! Sorry to drip on your floor!"

"I'm not _deaf _dear! Just old!" She yelled back. Sherlock laughed, turning his head away and John scowled.

The flat was decorated in an old fashioned way. It had plush cream carpeting, warm lighting, white crown molding, antique furniture and a number of Shirley Temple figurine dolls positioned neatly on the book shelves. It smelled of potpourri. Clearly the woman had been born in the early nineteen forties.

"Let's try to make this quick please. Mrs. Carrol, could you describe to us exactly what you saw?" Sherlock asked, smiling sweetly. They both remained standing, not wanting to soak the woman's furniture.

She clicked her tongue. "Yes, it was all very clear. A terrifying sign I'm sure. I can't possibly begin to understand it. I am hoping you can help me."

"We will do our very best." Sherlock smiled, his voice falsely sincere. John still had no idea where he was going with this. Mrs. Carrol explained that she had been in deep prayer for almost an hour when she opened her eyes and saw the treacherous form of a demon writhing over the body of Christ on the cross. It had long, terrifying arms. It only lasted a moment before it fell and disappeared. She begged them to believe her.

Sherlock reassured her. "Ma'am, I believe that you did see something unusual. However, it was not a demon. It was a shadow, two shadows to be precise. There was a building erect beside the chapel at the time of this occurrence yes?"

"Yes, there was; a horrid, ugly concrete block with a viewing platform up top. Not sure what its purpose was if it ever had one. It had been there for ages. It was scheduled for demolition." She said.

"It was demolished this morning I'm afraid, before the weather turned so fierce. Mrs. Carrol, what you saw was not a demon. It was a murder."

John smiled and shook his head at the dramatic tone Sherlock had to say _murder_ in.

"At the time of the event the sun was setting, it would have been shining right into the chapel window. On the viewing platform of the building beside it, two men fought. One killed the other. The writhing demon you thought you saw was merely a shadow cast down through the window by the confrontation. Distorted by the stained glass and by your concentrated mind, you thought you saw a demon. What you really saw was far more useful."

John stared at Sherlock for a moment. "Fantastic. How did you come up with that?" He asked.

"The building was destroyed early this morning. Whoever lured Officer Archer to that rooftop may have known that or it may have been very ill luck. It would be convenient though if they knew the crime scene would be demolished, however that does not add up with the poor disposal of the body and I believe that it happened to be coincidence. The brick and concrete fragments from the demolished building beside it match what was wedged in the officer's boot. It was also important to see the ground before any environmental evidence was ruined by this beastly weather."

Sherlock handed John his phone. He had taken three pictures. One was of a trail of smashed grass leading towards the water. The other two were of a small black notepad, Archer's notepad, illegible and smashed into the mud. Sherlock patted his pocket, indicating that he had it on him.

"That was the original scene of the crime. In a secluded location, beside the river, surrounded by empty buildings, warehouses and trees, it wasn't bad. They didn't count on being seen from the chapel."

The old woman stared at them. "I suppose it could have just been shadows, couldn't it? I turned to the window, but I couldn't see anyone out there. I didn't think to look towards the rooftop."

"Do you go there often to pray?" John asked.

"Yes, three or four times a week."

"And you haven't seen anything unusual lately?"

Mrs. Carrol shook her head. "No, the area is very quiet. It's been scheduled for frequent patrol since some woman tried to burn down Vandier's Furniture Warehouse a few months back."

"Do you know who usually patrols it?" Sherlock asked.

"I couldn't tell you. Never met them before; never thought to look at their name badges either."

"Would you be able to identify them by face?" John asked. He reach over and plucked a pen and paper off the table by the door.

"She can't tell the difference between a shadow and a demon John, we can't ask her to identify a face."

The elderly woman frowned at Sherlock.

"Right." John said, looking apologetically at the woman and handed her a piece of paper he'd just written on. "Here's our contact information. Please phone one of us if there's anything else you remember that might be of use."

"I hope we have eased your mind." Sherlock said, heading towards the door.

The journey home seemed long as they sat, shivering beside one another. Sherlock and John both needed badly to get out of their wet things before seeing Lestrade.

To their surprise, Mrs. Hudson had returned a day early from her trip. She gave some odd reason for it when they arrived but John felt that she most likely couldn't be away from her home for more than a day without worrying about the potential havoc that Sherlock could cause. If Sherlock felt the same he gave no indication of it and greeted her cheerfully. Mrs. Hudson followed them up the stairs, prattling about the awful state of her sister's house due to all the grandchildren and praised the recipes she had copied out of the family cook book to take home.

John was freezing, his neck was stiff and he worried about coming down with a cold. He took a quick shower, basking in the glory of hot water as it warmed his stoic muscles. After he was sufficiently thawed John shut off the shower, made to climb out and noticed that Sherlock pilfered all the towels away again. He stared at the ceiling for a moment before cracking the door.

"Sherlock! Bring me a towel would you? A clean one, if you can." John called down the hall. A moment later the door cracked open a bit wider and Sherlock's arm appeared; Towel in hand.

"Thanks."

"Hurry would you?" He said before closing the door.

Mrs. Hudson had made tea and set a plate of hot biscuits down at the table she had cleared of Sherlock's experiments. She always wore thick gloves when she cleaned up and sometimes a mask, depending on what the experiments looked like. Often, if she was afraid to touch something she would leave a note beside it. _Sherlock, please throw this away immediately. -Mrs. H_

John didn't blame her at all.

He seated himself across from Sherlock who was staring intently out the window, down into the street. His steely eyes were razor sharp and John couldn't help but wonder how it felt to process information the way Sherlock did. When he was lost in thought he became like a statue; elegant, pale, chiseled and utterly surreal.

John picked up a biscuit and began to nibble the edges. He wasn't particularly hungry but felt that it would be better to have something in his stomach. He'd left their sandwiches in the first cabby on the way to meet Lestrade.

The door buzzed loudly once. Sherlock glanced up, waiting.

"Sherlock!" Mrs. Hudson called from below. "Client!"

"Send him up, thank you!" Sherlock roared back. He immediately turned to John and made a gesture at him to be very quiet. John squinted. They heard footsteps coming up the stairs. Sherlock held up five fingers and counted down one with each step. On the last finger, the floor squeaked loudly and the neighbor's dog let out a rumbling series of barks. The steps quickened.

Sherlock recognized the man as soon as he walked into the room. He was a bit pale, his shoulders were spattered with raindrops he had a blue umbrella so clutched tightly in hand that his knuckles were white from the grip.

"Hello." Sherlock said pleasantly. "You emailed about the robbery twice. You are the innocent man who was found with the assailant's weapon on him. Yes, I believe you. Clearly you are innocent. You've never fired a gun in your life, you're not so bad off with your finances any more that you need to rob anyone, you would never do it for fun, large dogs severely intimidate you, you don't understand the first thing about how security systems work, your mind is completely prosaic and you happened to be getting mugged at the time of the robbery which is why you were stopped by the police in the first place."

The man opened and closed his mouth several times before replying. "Most of that wasn't in the police report." He said. It was all he could think of. He had heard of Sherlock Holmes before, had read about him in the paper once or twice but never could he imagine what meeting the man might be like. He took in his surroundings, the fire crackled quietly, the place was littered with books and stacks of paper, various bottles and jars lined the shelves. There was a blond man sitting across from Sherlock who looked confused and the biscuit in his hand seemed all but forgotten.

Sherlock spoke so quickly that his words ran together. "I haven't read the police report. I'm in the middle of something extremely important and rather time sensitive at the moment. It requires my most urgent attention and I do not have time to help you. Please leave and I will be in contact with you later. Thank you."

The man protested, crying. "I never even _had _the gun! The fat bastard who arrested me pretended to get it out of my jacket when he was patting me down!"

John and Sherlock glanced at each other. John shrugged, indicating that Sherlock might want to listen.

"Okay, go. Speak quickly." Sherlock leaned forward in his chair.

"Can you describe the officer?" John asked.

"Um, he was thick_ Uh, he, hmmm, _No not really. I'm very bad with faces. His name will be in the police file though. He was blonde and portly. Had a rubbish attitude."

John knew how frustrated Sherlock got when people gave bad descriptions. It was something he knew Sherlock couldn't fathom.

"Tell me everything that happened in as much detail as you possibly can. Quickly." He demanded again.

The man looked alarmed. "Well, first, my name is Nick Moger. I was walking home from Hoffman's bar up the street on Meriwether Road and a big bloke jumped me. He was just walking by, not saying a word, had his hat down, looked completely regular and just swung on me out of nowhere. Caught me right on the jaw. There was a bruise but it's gone away now_"

"The swelling hasn't." Sherlock sounded bored and annoyed at the same time. "You're jumpy and you hand goes straight to your pocket every time you walk past someone in the street. Protecting your assets."

_That's what Sherlock was staring at out the window. _John thought.

Nick nodded. "He took my chip purse, thinking it was my wallet."

"Your wife won't be happy know you're still gambling."

John realized that Sherlock was probing him for information.

"No, that's why I carry fake chips. I just play bet now. I've paid off my debts. With hard work mind you, not by gambling. You sound like my Linda. I don't owe anyone anything and I didn't rob anyone, someone tried to rob _me_!"

"Yes, I know you didn't rob anyone. The family who was robbed owned a German Shepherd. When I saw you walking up the street you gave a wide birth around the window with the barking pit-bull in it. I thought it might have been pit-bulls in particular but your adrenaline spiked when Henry started barking after you tread on the squeaky step in the stairs. You have a strong fear of large dogs. You don't really like small dogs and you own an orange tabby. Also, as I said before, I know that you're not so bad off that you would need to rob someone. Your clothes tell me that. What do you think of this picture?" Sherlock asked, turning his phone towards Nick.

Nick shook his head. "Don't know him. Why?"

Sherlock displayed the next picture.

"I don't know him either."

Nick said "No" six more times in succession. John was wondering what Sherlock was doing, showing the man a bunch of random faces, when Nick paused.

"Wait. I don't know. He might be familiar." He said.

John leaned over Sherlock's shoulder to see the picture. It was Officer Archer. He was out of uniform and it was just a random picture of him. Sherlock turned to look at John, a grin stretching across his face. Though John wasn't quite sure what was going on he couldn't help but smile back.

Nick cleared his throat loudly.

"Thank you for your time. We'll be in touch tomorrow. I will prove you innocent before tonight is over." Sherlock said as he hopped to his feet. He paced back and forth a few times, his form casting shadows across the room from the crackling fire.

"What? You're serious?" He said, eyes darting back and forth between them in disbelief.

"Of course I am. You have my cell number? Good. Keep your head down, don't go out tonight, do not go to the bar or get in any trouble of any kind anywhere. Got it? Goodbye." Sherlock was throwing on his coat.

"Thank you Mr. Holmes."

He hurried down the stairs and out of sight.

"How'd you know the family had a dog if you didn't read the police report?" John asked.

"The story was being covered on the news. The sound was muted at Rural's but they showed a picture of the family that was robbed, including the dog. I only caught the very end of it."

"Excellent. What are you thinking now?"

"Officer Morich and Officer Archer responded to the robbery call. They arrived on scene as the suspect escaped. Archer began interviewing the family. He does the talking. Officer Morich took off to search the surrounding streets for anything useful. He finds the gun that the assailant dumped. Around the corner runs unfortunate Nick who Officer Morich arrests. He described a portly blonde police officer and recognized Archer's picture."

John nodded, following along.

"Officer Morich doesn't know that Nick did or didn't do it. I believe he must have been desperate for some recognition. Archer knew that Morich's got the wrong guy. He confronts Morich about it while they're out on patrol. Morich panics. Somehow he lures Archer up to the rooftop. Oh. Of course. _Stupid._ No, forget that. He never lured him. Archer is a photographer. He was known for carrying his camera on him while on duty and taking scenic pictures. More likely, he confronted Officer Morich while they were there alone, away from any company. An argument ensued. Archer was killed, or at least knocked out. Officer Morich panicked. I believe that old woman saved us a great deal of time and searching. The evidence that I gathered from the rubble behind the church could easily have been lost by this weather if she hadn't contacted us. She is also a witness. We need to get down to the station. We need to collect Archer's camera. Also I need to see his body again. Morich has been following us, watching. Thankfully he's really not a violent sort and not much of a danger but he may try to run if not taken quickly."

They hurried down the stairs and back out into the dastardly downpour. Sherlock waved down a cab and they climbed in. John sneezed.

"You've got a cold?" Sherlock asked, concern in his expression. He peered down into John's face and his heart jumped a beat.

"I'm getting there." John replied. He felt his face grow warm.

They hadn't been going down the road for five minutes when John's phone rang. It was a number he didn't recognize.

"Hullo? Mrs. Carrol? What's going on?" John asked. Sherlock's phone beeped.

_**It's Nick. I'm being followed. I think.**_ The text read.

Sherlock groaned and hit the call button, talking over John.

"Listen to me. Get to a public location immediately. Get inside a shop with a decent amount of people in it and text me the address." He hung up. "Nick is being stalked." Sherlock said. "PULL OVER!" Sherlock yelled to the cabbie.

"Mrs. Carrol just called to tell me there's a bloke in her house who is claiming he's with us. She got an odd feeling about him and she's in the restroom now; locked herself in, hiding. I told her to call the police. She said she did and an officer is responding now."

"John, are you armed?" Sherlock asked.

"Of course, why?"

"I need to get Nick. You need to go to Mrs. Carrol. This is too convenient. I thought we'd lost the car following us before. I thought Officer Morich was alone but it would appear he is not. Nick and Mrs. Carrol are both being stalked as we speak. They could both be in danger. There is more than one police officer involved in this mess. It's Officer Carter, the older cousin. I should have guessed before. Most likely, he's the one following Nick. He's stronger. Has more authority. Nick wouldn't recognize him. He could easily say that he is with us." Sherlock sneezed.

"You're not well either." John said.

"No, I feel a bit down but I can't worry about that at the moment John." He got out of the cab and told the driver to take John to 1460 Goods Way. "Can you handle getting Officer Morich under control?" John nodded.

"Good. Phone Lestrade and fill him in on what's going on while you're heading there. Call me when the situation is under control or have Lestrade call me."

"Right." John said. Sherlock slammed the door and waved down another cab, going in the opposite direction.

**Chapter 4**

**Damage Control**

Sherlock had known that Officer Morich wasn't intelligent in the least. He was cowardly, ignorant, irrational, impatient and egotistical. Of course it made sense that upon murdering Archer he called Officer Carter for help. His older cousin, always controlling, always looking out for him, would surely clean up the mess he'd made. That's why Carter was so persistent on staying while Sherlock questioned Officer Morich. Officer Carter wanted to make sure he didn't botch it all. Now, with Sherlock on the case, they were desperate to control the situation before it got out of hand. Nick had called Sherlock to tell him that he was waiting at Munford's Steakhouse up the road.

Twelve minutes later the cab pulled up to the curb. Sherlock got out just in time to see Nick across the street, bent over a police car in handcuffs. Sherlock's phone rang. It was John. Sherlock stuffed the phone back in his pocket and ran across the street, darting around the traffic. The sky was growing dark and officer had roughly shoved Nick into the back of the car, slamming the door as Sherlock reached him.

"Officer Carter! Pardon_Oh." Sherlock stopped. It wasn't Carter, it was Officer Morich.

So Carter had gone to Mrs. Carrol's house. Carter was the dangerous one. Sherlock's phone began ringing again. Officer Morich looked wild.

"Y-y-you'll wa-want to answer t-th-th-that" He said, glancing around nervously and pointing at Sherlock's pocket. It was still raining. Hardly anyone was out on the street. Officer Morich waited. Sherlock flipped the phone open.

"John did you get a hold of Lestrade?" He asked, his voice was urgent.

"I'm afraid not." A different voice answered. It was steady and commanding. Sherlock swore. "John's a bit preoccupied at the moment. Here's what you're going to do. When I tell you, give the phone to Cousin Mikey. Get in the car. He's going to take you and the other fellow for a little ride. We're all going to meet up and we're going to talk about this situation we're in. I've got your boyfriend and the old lady here. Don't make things worse, understand? If you try anything, I'll kill them both before anyone gets here." Sherlock heard John speak in the background. His voice was quieted with a sharp _crack_. Sherlock paled. He hands Officer Morich the phone. Officer Morich opens the back door. Sherlock climbs in next to Nick. After a moment on the phone with Officer Carter, Officer Morich got in the car and began to drive.

Sherlock is thinking furiously. He is unarmed. John is disarmed. Nick is in handcuffs, breathing heavily. "What's going on?" He asked.

"We're in an interesting situation. I don't suppose you have your phone." Sherlock said. Nick shook his head and nodded at Officer Morich up front.

"That was the officer who arrested me before. I remember now. My family's going to be wondering where I am. They'll probably think I'm out gambling. I said I'd been home ages ago." He said.

Nighttime had fallen heavily over London by the time they pulled up to the warehouses. Officer Morich got out of the car and used Sherlock's phone to make a call. He flung the door open and stepped back quickly, far enough that Sherlock couldn't disarm the gun that was leveled at his face. Carter had most likely warned Officer Morich not to get too close. Sherlock needed three feet. Just three feet and Officer Morich's reaction time wouldn't be quick enough to stop him from being disarmed. Sherlock counted Nick as completely useless towards the progress of the situation at the moment. Officer Morich walked them inside the massive green warehouse.

It was filed with longs rows of shelves, construction equipment, heavy packages of brick and cement. At the far end of the warehouse sat John, bound with his hands behind his back to a metal foldup chair.

"I don't suppose you managed to get ahold of Lestrade did you?" Sherlock asked John calmly as Officer Morich walked them over.

"He didn't answer. Then I got ambushed as soon as I was at Mrs. Carrol's front door. Carter was the officer who responded to the call she made to the police." John said.

"Pity." Sherlock replied. Officer Carter came out from one of the rooms in the back carrying a few long zip ties.

"So, your cousin killed a man and now you're helping him clean up the mess?" Sherlock said to Carter.

Officer Morich protested. "I didn't do _anything._ He hurt himself. None of it was supposed to happen." His voice was a high whine.

"Right." Sherlock said.

Carter shook his head. "He really didn't." His voice was protective. "He _did_ arrest the wrong man. Archer knew it. Officer Morich loved Archer. He would never hurt him on purpose. The man did _everything_ for him. When Archer was taking his idiotic sunset pictures he started trying to convince my little cousin to confess and let _him_ walk free." He gestured towards Nick. "In the end, they got a little hyped up, Officer Morich gave him a shove and Archer tripped over backwards. He hit his head. My cousin called me. I handled the rest."

"Handled it poorly." Sherlock said.

"Yet here you are. The situation is under control."

"Where do you suppose we go from here?" Sherlock asked, walking forward a step. John had a look of concentration on his face. Sherlock knew how resourceful he was. He hoped John could get himself free.

"_Freeze_." Carter commanded, pointing his gun at John's head. Sherlock froze. Classical music began playing, coming from Office Officer Morich. He grabbed Nick's phone out of his pocket.

"Linda?" Officer Morich asked, looking at Carter for advice. Nick's face paled. Sherlock and John thought it must be his wife.

"Don't answer." Carter said. Officer Morich put the phone away. "Here's what we're going to do." He continued, looking at Sherlock. John bristled at the thought of Carter telling Sherlock what to do. The zip tie around his hands was fight but he continued to fidget, trying to get the thick plastic caught in the sharp fold of the chair.

"You're going to call Lestrade and tell him that this man_," He jerked his head at Nick. "_Is the killer. You're going to tell them you're after him now."

"If I don't?" Sherlock asked. Officer Morich was behind him. Close behind him. Nick was shaking in his boots, hands bound behind his back. Sherlock needed an opening. Just one quick opening.

"You're going to die painfully." Carter said. "So is John Watson. You're going to watch him die slowly. Or you're going to make that call."

"Tommy I don't like this." Officer Morich said, shaking his head. "It wasn't supposed to go this way. We can't kill Sherlock Holmes. They'll find it out."

"Then you're going to kill all of us anyways and pin it on _him_. Say it was too late by the time you got here." Sherlock said, glancing at Nick. Carter nodded.

The phone began ringing again. There was a noise like a car door slamming outside. Nick closed his eyes. He looked pained. Sherlock hoped the sound had been muffled by the rain. Perhaps it was Nick's wife, who somehow managed to figure out where they were. Perhaps Nick's phone had GPS. John was staring at Sherlock, trying to read him; Trying to see if he had a plan. Officer Morich was obviously unstable.

Sherlock turned to Officer Morich. "Yes Officer, Lestrade will find out. He knows I suspected you. Even if we are all killed, you will still be caught. You will still be destroyed. Known as a failure. What will your _mother_ think?" Sherlock said coldly. Officer Morich's breathing became shallow.

"Shut it Holmes." Snapped Carter, crack John across the face with his gun. Blood began trickling down his forehead. Sherlock grimaced. Officer Morich was shaking violently. John squinted, still trying to hook the zip tie against the chair.

"_Dad?"_ a voice said. All of them turned. The front door of the warehouse had been pulled open and a teenage girl with a shock of brown curls was peering into the vast, dimly lit room.

"Linda _RUN_!" Nick screamed. The girl didn't hesitate, she ran. Sherlock heard Carter swear. Officer Morich was hyperventilating, overcome with nerves.

"_Get her! GET HER!"_ Carter cried, running towards them, gun still pointed at Sherlock. Officer Morich started to run but stumbled. The rest happened in a flash. Nick, though handcuffed, threw himself at Officer Carter knocking him to the ground. His gun skitted across the floor. Sherlock landed a swift kick on Officer Morich's chin and disarmed the gun from his hand. He was dazed. Sherlock turned and aimed it at Officer Carter who was on his feet again. Carter leaped at him, arms outstretched. He was four feet away. Sherlock fired, catching him just below the ribs. Carter jerked but did not fall. He reached Sherlock, grabbing at the gun. It discharged accidentally. They were all deaf, ears ringing from the shot. The lights flickered.

Nick had gotten his cuffed hands in front of him and now threw his arms around Carter's neck, digging the chain into his flesh and pulling him back to the ground. Sherlock wretched the gun away and told Officer Morich to stay down, kicking him hard again. Carter was fighting with all his might but Nick had locked both legs around his stomach, making it difficult for Carter to turn. He clawed at the chain around his neck, ducking his chin. He was a tough fighter.

"FREEZE!" Sherlock yelled at Carter who would not stop long enough to see that he had the gun pointed at his cousin's head. Officer Morich was quaking from head to toe but Carter was in a rage. Nick was on his back with Carter on top of him, stomach up. Sherlock walked over and brutally bashed Carter over the head with the gun. He roared in outrage and elbowed Nick hard in the ribs. Sherlock was grabbed from behind. Officer Morich had gotten himself back together. Sherlock let one arm out of his coat and turned in a full circle, leveling the gun at Officer Morich. He glanced at the corner where John was and was shocked to see that the chair was empty.

"Dammit Sherlock I can't get a clear shot!" John yelled. He was standing over Carter and Nick who were still fighting, rolling back and forth on the ground. John stepped in and swiftly kicked Carter in the side of the head hard and then darted back. The man was an animal. Sherlock had Officer Morich get on the ground and put his hands over his head, cracking him over the head with the gun. Officer Morich went unconscious.

Carter reached wildly for John, trying to grab his ankle. Nick pulled on the chain as hard as he could. After another few moments of struggling and taking brutal kicks from John, Carter's head slumped down. He was unconscious.

"Finally. Keep the gun on him, he could be faking. If he moves, shoot him. That's an _order_. I'll get his cuffs." John commanded Sherlock as he knelt over Carter. He plucked the cuffs off his belt and Nick helped roll him onto his stomach. They were both covered in the wounded officer's blood. Carter was out cold for the moment. Officer Morich had woken up and was crying. John found Officer Morich's keys and swapped the cuffs from Nick's hand onto the sobbing officer's, laying him down beside the unconscious Carter. John took the liberty of tightly zip tying Carter's arms behind his back.

The whole thing had taken about four or five minutes all together. A rather long, messy fight in John's opinion. They heard sirens in the background. Nick ran outside. John turned to Sherlock.

"That one was a bit botched." He said.

Sherlock shrugged. "Every time we come out alive is a victory. I was stupid though, should have known that Carter would be involved." He stepped up to inspect John's forehead. There was a shallow, quarter inch long gash that was still bleeding. Sherlock pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and blotted at it, leaning in close.

"Thanks." John said, taking it from Sherlock's hand and applying pressure. His knees were shaking. Before he could speak, Sherlock wrapped an arm around his waist and led him back to the chair he'd been bonded to, still keeping an eye on Officer Morich. John sat heavily.

"How'd you get out?" Sherlock asked, his arm was resting over John's shoulder.

"It was a _zip tie_." John laughed. "I shimmied it into the crook in the chair and wore at it for a few minutes until it was weak enough to break. I just needed a bit of time while they were distracted. I would have gotten out in a moment even if Nick's, what, daughter? Even if she hadn't shown up. What was she doing here anyways?"

"Looking for her father. Obviously."

"Did she follow us here?"

Sherlock shrugged. "She could have tracked his phone or she could have been following us. Ready to find out?"

Lestrade walked through the door with three officers behind him. Sherlock gave him a quick description of what had happened and John requested that an ambulance and police car be sent to Mrs. Carrol's house. She was bound and gagged, stuck on the floor of her bedroom. John said that Carter was going to come back and deal with her after everything else had been handled. He ventured over to Nick and Linda, leaving Sherlock to explain things.

Nick had both hands up in defense. Linda had both arms crossed and was yelling at her father.

"Hang on. What's this then?" John asked as he walked up.

"Just like her mother." Nick said. "She's been onto me about the play gambling. Followed me this afternoon when I came to your house, thinking I was going out to play some Acey Deucey. She watched me get arrested by Officer Morich. Watched Sherlock come up and get into the car, watched Officer Morich get in. She got suspicious and followed us here. She was trying to catch me at the gambling before Mom did." Linda looked at John and nodded.

"She'll have you outta the house again if she catches you even pretending. This mess is just your karma for being an idiot. Mum's worth more than your poker chips." Linda spat.

"And she knew the man she married when she married him." Nick snapped back.

John nodded, feeling uncomfortable. "Right. That was a good bit of luck. Made the situation a bit easier than it might have been. I'll leave you to it." He turned and walked back to Sherlock. Within a few minutes Lestrade received a call and let them all know that Mrs. Carrol was safe. John and Sherlock couldn't collect their phones back from Lestrade until after they'd been processed. The ambulance had taken away Carter, who was most likely going to make it out alive from the gunshot wound to the stomach.

"Pity." Sherlock said. John elbowed him. Sherlock laughed and handed over the notepad he had collected from the crime scene and told Lestrade to see the pictures on his phone. He also told Lestrade to put Archer's digital camera memory in a bag of rice and let it sit for a few days to see if they could get any photographs off of it. Sherlock wanted to confirm that pictures from the rooftop had been taken. Then he asked to borrow Lestrade's cell to make a quick call.

"What for?" He asked, suspicious of him.

"For your sake, I need to speak to the Warden immediately. If she doesn't want this getting out to the press she needs to do exactly as I say." He replied. Lestrade put a number in and handed the phone to Sherlock, who walked out of earshot to speak.

"It's been less than twenty four hours since Archer went missing. He's done in one night what would take us weeks to do through processing evidence and putting bits together."

"To be fair, we had help from a really old delusional woman. Also, the prime giveaway for the whole thing was _him_ showing up on our doorstep." John nodded towards Nick. "I don't think he was too keen on showing up on yours."

Lestrade nodded. Sherlock returned a few moments later, smiling. He handed over the phone.

"Everything's taken care of. She will be calling you shortly to go over what we talked about." Sherlock said.

"Right. Thanks."

"Are we done?" Sherlock asked.

"I'll let you know if I need anything else." He said.

"Hungry?" Sherlock asked John.

He nodded. "Starving."

"Garble's?"

"Sure."

John was exhausted through and through. He dozed off on the way to the restaurant, slumping down beside Sherlock who carefully cleaned the rest of the blood off of his face. John opened his eyes as Sherlock blotted at his temple, staring down at him. He retracted his hand quickly. John felt the air catch in his throat. John closed his eyes and waited until he felt Sherlock's hand return to its task.

"About what's been bothering me." Sherlock said. "The nightmares I mean."

John waited. Sherlock was silent, reaching for the right words. _My lack of sentiment for others keeps me safe. Keeps me fearless. John. I fear for you. It wasn't Moriarty in the dreams that has been haunting me. It's seeing you in danger and losing you. It's him knowing that I have_ Sentiment_ for you. It's everyone seeing it, even officer Carter. It's them knowing that I will do anything to keep you from harm._

What he actually said was, "Moriarty got away. I'll be facing him again. You already know this."

John nodded. "What are you getting at?"

"I'm simply saying that I am a terrible flat mate and a dangerous man to be around. That's all."

John smiled. "It's a wonder you met me then because nobody else would put up with you."

"Indeed. Something I appreciate more than I am often able to express."

The words had been spoken quietly. John glanced over. Sherlock was staring out the window intently, avoiding his gaze. He knew how the man hated to be sentimental and was surprised by the kindness of his words. He knew that was about as close as Sherlock could get to being sweet. John smiled, a bit of energy returning to him.

Over dinner Sherlock made deductions on the people seated around them. John laughed as he described the people and their relationships, feeling somewhat guilty that such personal things could be so easily read by his friend.

"You know, if you happened to develop psychic powers, I doubt anyone would notice the difference." John said, smiling. Sherlock shook his head, smiling.

"Okay, her, in the blue top." Sherlock said, pointing to a lovely brunette with a plunging neckline.

"What about her?" John asked.

"See how she reacts to the man beside her? She's terribly inconsiderate of his feelings despite the fact that they have been dating for some time. However, sitting across from her, the man in the jacket, it is actually him that she's enthralled with. He's married but if an opportunity arose he would not hesitate to be unfaithful. He's very attracted to her as well. See how they lean in when they speak to each other? When her boyfriend leaves to get a drink, their conversation becomes animated and they laugh loudly. They soak one another up. Frankly, I believe they are all in denial about the situation. She knows who she's _really_ attracted to, her lover knows but won't admit it to himself and the married man surely knows but will wait until the woman makes herself clear before falling prey to his carnal desires. In the end it will turn to be some tragic play of feelings and sorrowful cries of 'I never meant it!'. Honestly though, they all know."

"How do you suppose that is?" John asked.

"Don't be daft. They always know and they always do it anyways. It's human nature to lie internally in order to believe that they sin innocently. It is one of the most illogical, annoying things I have ever had the displeasure to discover about humanity."

John shook his head, utterly amazed. "I can look all day and never see what you see." He said, cataloging the information.

"It's obvious. Humans are so predictable is hurts. Of course, none of that may ever take place. In the end though, should he find her unfaithful he will be horribly surprised but deep down, he already knows. You can see the jealousy in his body language. It's painfully embarrassing."

John stared at the man. He was the smaller of the two males and his body language was solely focused on her. Hers was dedicated to the married man opposite of her. When she spoke to him, her companion would reach out and stroke her arm, touch her hand and generally display unconscious possessiveness and dominance over her. John made a mental note to become more aware of body language between people, realizing how much it matters in their line of work.

"Sorry, why is it you find all that embarrassing?" John asks, thoughtful.

Sherlock shrugs. "I myself would never want to be caught dead in such a position. If another person saw any of those things in me and I were blind or in denial to them I would loathe myself. The sheer stupidity of it is horrible. I see it every day, everywhere I go I feel like I'm walking through a sea of endless, badly written plays with predictable outcomes. The only things that is interesting to me is the game. Solving the puzzles and winning against the criminals who dare to compete."

"You're embarrassed for them because you effortlessly see into their private lives and would be mortified if you had a private life that was so easily displayed to the world." John confirmed.

"Exactly."

"Except you don't and the only person who really sees your private affairs that you don't want is Mycroft."

"That's bad enough and you don't like it either. May I remind you that you _detest_ when people mistake our relationship for anything but platonic?" Sherlock said, picking at his garlic bread.

"Yes, but they're not seeing it for what it is." John said.

"What do you think they see?"

The question made John hesitate. "I suppose they see two blokes living together, who are constantly with each other, they don't know that we share our finances but they see that we have each other's backs and of course you are mainly the cause of the whole thing. I never had anyone mistaking my sexuality before I met you."

Sherlock looked utterly taken aback.

"What is _that _supposed to mean?" He quipped.

John grinned into his drink as he took a swallow.

"Sorry, no I didn't mean it like that. You do not look queer and you don't act like it. It's just, you're… You're so reserved and no one has seen you ever have any attraction to another female and so far it seems like I'm really the only person who you spend any time with. It's fine. It doesn't bother me anymore. It used to but I'm pretty much past the point of caring now."

Sherlock looked bemused but let the subject drop.

He gulped the last inch of beer from the bottom of the glass and set the tip out as Sherlock paid the tab. John yawned loudly as they settled in for the cab ride home, intending to close his eyes for just a moment. He crossed his arms and leaned his head into the seat. As he began to doze, Sherlock found himself staring. His eyes glossed over the content relaxation on John's face. His eyelashes trembled lightly, his chest began to rise and fall in a slow, rhythmic pattern and when he began to shiver, Sherlock found himself shrugging out of his long wool coat and laying it gently over John's sleeping form.

As they rounded the corner onto Baker Street Sherlock gave John's leg a gentle nudge with his boot, producing not wakefulness, but a small snore. The cabbie pulled up and Sherlock leaned forward to pay the toll.

"John?" He said quietly, not entirely sure how to proceed. His flat mate was out cold. He reached out and awkwardly nudged his shoulder. John's eyes fluttered open and he glanced around, confused before sitting up.

"Mmm, dozed off." He said, reaching to unbuckle himself and getting caught up in Sherlock's coat. He stared down at it in bewilderment, trying to gather his bearings.

"You seemed cold." Sherlock explained hurriedly as John handed it back to him.

"Huh, thank you." John said through a yawn.

Sherlock fumbled for his keys for a moment before letting them inside. The hall was dark, cramped and overly warm. John yawned again as they entered their dormant, dimly lit flat. He clicked the light on and Sherlock went to stoke the fire. John settled himself into his chair, reclining. His mind drifted over the events of their day and he chuckled quietly.

"Hmm?" Sherlock said as he upturned the coals and settled a new log on top.

"Nothing." John shook his head. "Eventful day is all. It's never dull with you."

"If you fall asleep there I'll not wake you up and you'll have a frightful knot in your neck by morning." Sherlock warned.

John rose, rotating his bad shoulder a few times before turning towards the hall.

"Goodnight Sherlock." He said as he made his way to the stairs.

Sherlock basked in the freshly kindled firelight.

"Goodnight, John." He said quietly.


End file.
